There’s conflicting evidence if you search for it on the web, but some sources indicate there’s more than 4,000 nerve endings in the male penis (scientists are still figuring out what each does).

Truth is, however hundreds or thousands there are, this bottom has an ass that can overwhelm every single one.

As I fucked him the second time with five loads already deep in his ass, his hole felt honestly fresh. His sinewy muscles moved deftly under my touch and he knew exactly which way I wanted to go. I never had to do more than slightly move one direction or another before he anticipated my need and responded.

His intuition was on point and ready.

When I fucked his ass deeply with my cock, the smoothness of his hole glided open and closed around my rock hard cock… no matter the pace of my fuck. Hard or soft, easy or rough.

And he kept his ass positioned ready for me. He didn’t back up or try to derive more pleasure from me. He knew it was about giving me pleasure. So he focused on what would bring me easily to another massive load in his hole.

I did. I buried a huge fucking load in his ass.

My cock throbbed for an eternity and his pulse quickened, enjoying the feel of my sperm splattering the insides and mixing with the other men’s juice already deep in his guts.

Some of you don’t give a shit about this internal raging debate. I wish I didn’t need to write this posting.

The Bareback Brotherhood is a movement formed out of the necessity of confusion. What does it mean to be a barebacker? Can one be a serosorting, monogamous-only cum-hound? Or does being a barebacker mean bug-chasing, stealth-advocating, anonymous fuckers only?

The answer is yes. And no.

To bareback means both, all of the above and none of it. Whatever one thinks about barebacking, you’ve limited yourself.

When we formed the Bareback Brotherhood and I coined the hashtag #BBBH and phrase, we did so with the understanding that it was for the freedom of that very sense of what it means to be a barebacker. For far too long, the safe sex Nazis had defined fucking as a plastic barrier between men.

We needed to remove the barrier and show that men could choose another path. That choice was one that men could make. It says so on our website: “We agree on one thing — sex between men without barriers is natural and a legitimate choice. As consenting adults, skin-to-skin intimacy should be a choice that is not demonized or marginalized.”

The Attacks of RawTop

RawTop runs the website BreedingZone.com, which has carried an RSS feed of my blog and many other bareback bloggers. If you visit BreedingZone or RawTop’s blog, one is bombarded with porn advertisements, which he says are a convenience.

On Sunday, RawTop e-mailed me and told me he’d purchased BBBH.com and planned to build a hook-up website to compete with BarebackRT.com. In exchange for my (and other BBBH cofounders endorsement), we’d get free “recognition and enhanced memberships” on the site along with t-shirts.

I entertained the notion. I’ve made no secret that the cyber attacks have continued on this and the BBBH website has cost me time and money I simply do not have.

At the same time, though, RawTop posted on BreedingZone that I’m “so focused on stealthing” that it’s tainted the BBBH brand. He told me he’d need to write very clearly on his hook-up site that stealthing it was a position he did not advocate, he didn’t like and that he would separate himself and the “brand” from me.

While I couldn’t give a shit about what RawTop thinks about me, what I didn’t like was how he would take the #BBBH and begin to define it.

In other words, RawTop would begin to restrict what it meant to be in the #BBBH movement. Despite his own BreedingZone includes strings of conversation in “The Backroom” for gift-giving and bug-chasing that includes a lot of stealthing content.

Some Barebackers Will Not Be Welcome at BBBH.com

Would RawTop prevent bug-chasers or gift-givers fr0m joining? The answer is yes.

I suggested that RawTop turn BreedingZone.com into a hook-up site rather than attempting to take over the #BBBH brand.

He wrote me: “All the bug chasing discussion on Breeding Zone turns off a lot of people. It’s a bit tainted in that way – too many people don’t want to be associated with bug chasing so Breeding Zone can’t effectively be turned into a hookup site.”

In other words, if you advocate certain positions, you will not be welcomed at BBBH.com.

That directly opposes the founding principals of the #BBBH.

It is for this reason I cannot advocate, endorse and, in fact, I must oppose the development of this website. The #BBBH is all encompassing when it comes to skin-to-skin contact.

What next? No Poz barebackers allowed? Would one be required to submit proof of one’s status on the new and improved BBBH.com to have an enhanced profile? Maybe only neg guys could see other neg guys?

Perhaps RawTop could connect directly with local labs and get a CD4 and viral load count so Undetectables won’t mix with Poz. Maybe we’ll check your meds.

RawTop Wants Your Money

“To be clear – I make my money off the bareback community,” he wrote me.

To be clear, I don’t make any money off the bareback community. If you’ve logged onto BBBH.me, you’ll notice I’ve got a complete hands-off approach. I also don’t write about stealthing there. There’s no ads there.

The Bareback Brotherhood is one without restrictions, without plastic, without barriers. And RawTop is putting them in place. He is saying that certain people will not be welcomed on his new site, although I imagine his greed will eventually allow him to accept the funds from them before he kicks them to the curb.

The #BBBH Cannot Belong to Him

As I explained to RawTop, BBBH is a movement like Occupy Wall Street. It has custodians, sure. We are here to make sure no one profits from the movement.

A porn company recently contacted me, asking if they could do a video named #BBBH. I explained to the producers, each of them could be members of the #BBBH, as could the actors. We’d welcome that. But a video of that name would prove limiting to the ideals for which the Brotherhood stands.

The producers respected that and did not name the video.

This is just one example of many to set a precedence that the #BBBH cannot become the solely owned hook-up domain of RawTop.

I Did Not Want This

This is where I supposedly “threatened” a lawsuit. I just suggested that he might do better to invest in a different effort, not taking the brand built by so many brothers using our hashtag.

RawTop moved this debate into the public forum. I didn’t. I do not relish this battle. No one wins when the bareback community battles. Just because I don’t want the #BBBH to back a commercial venture against BarebackRT.com seems bizarre.

I can hope that RawTop steps back and thinks carefully about his impact on the overall community rather than how to line his pockets with more.

As he said, “To be clear – I make my money off the bareback community.”

You can’t see them. You can’t touch them. You just knew that one moment they were there and the next, they were gone. Is it a mystery? Some phenomenon worthy of Bigfoot, the Bermuda Triangle and what pills Paula Abdul takes before going on air?

Probably not.

I call them #CloseGhosts. And I’ve recently had close encounters of the plentiful kind them on recent travels.

With the conviction of a serial killer who proclaims his innocence, these lovely bottoms in far away cities and town lurk upon websites (like BarebackRT.com or this blog), Twitter or other online hook-up destinations, assuring traveling a top when he arrives in their town, city or other geographic region that an ass will be ready to fuck at his demand.

Alas, a phenomenon occurs when that top arrives and is in close proximity to the bottom. The cum dump vanishes into thin air, often with some wispy excuse similar to “the dog ate my homework” or “the check is in the mail.”

Case #1: London Twitter Twink & the Quickening

We all know that London is notoriously known for all the ghosts that wander its streets and waterways, its old buildings and strange little alleys. However, having had men upon men beg me for my load for years, I figured one might be legit among them.

My BBRT exploded. I had more than 300 messages at one time and maintaining control of it via my iPhone came close to impossible. One gentleman who seemed legit got pissy because I’d not responded to him immediately upon arrival in town, so he crossed himself off the list. The rest where the normal lot. I waded through them all, trying to invite someone over for a breeding to my centrally located hotel near the West End, not far from Trafalgar Square.

Too far. Apparently, Londoners go to bed early on Bank Holidays and weren’t interested as I attempted to find someone to fuck about 21:00 to 22:00 (that’s 9 p.m. to 10 p.m. for us bloody Americans).

Then a tweet came in from a twink. How’s London, he asked. I replied. It became a conversation of sorts that moved to direct messages and a bit more privacy when I mentioned my trip would be so much better if I had an ass to breed.

“I can help you out there,” he said. “I’d love for you to load my ass. Big fan of your blog.”

He asked when I was leaving. Told him this was my last night. I asked where he was. He said, “Covent Gardens.”

Boom. That’s the neighborhood I’m in. I’m over at the… I listed the hotel.

Pause. Double pause.

“Oh, it’s too bad I’m not at home tonight. I’m staying with a friend in the country.”

Poof.

Case #2: The Early Alabama Bird Misses the Juicy Worm

I’d started on BBRT with this hottie and turned to text messaging. We were getting ready for some good fun, all planned out in Alabama. I’d let him know that it would be a late arrival for me and he’d told me we’d have “several hours” of play.

I’d even arranged a nice corner room, away from everyone in the hotel, because I had a feeling this fuck might get a bit out of control.

I don’t usually trust bottoms. Bottoms in general are not trustworthy. But I’d grown to trust this one.

I arrived just after 9 p.m. and texted. No response. Another text. No response. Around 9:30, I get a response saying he’d fallen asleep. Then, “he didn’t know I was going to be so late.”

Late? It’s 9:30!

We’d been setting this up for a month.

The shitty little cocktease went on to berate me for almost an hour about being “late.” Of course the little fucker didn’t get off so easily in this from me.

Obviously, he loved the chase, but actually fucking… well, I’m guessing his balls hadn’t quite dropped yet. My timing was never the issue.

POOF

Cases 3 & 4: The Revolutionary Missing Men

In this history-rich part of America just north of Boston, finding fuckable asses aren’t easy. I knew this. I planned for it with a backup ass. I found them both and, as it turned out, both claimed to want it.

One said he’d be online on BBRT. Te other asked me to text. My #1 choice, the textable ass, got a text.

We pinged a bit before I asked him to come over.

Pause. He then, for some reason, told me his actual location. In Maine. And invited me over.

Baffled, I asked what was up.

“I don’t have a car,” was his response.

Now it wasn’t as if both of us were in downtown Boston. This little hottie claimed in the middle of bumfuck Maine, he had no transportation, after knowing I was visiting from out of town.

This ghost responded when I was no longer close, in Boston, about to fly home.

Just the Four?

No. I have so many more stories. But these are the four most recent. I did debate divulging Twitter names, BBRT handles showing a photo or two, but I’m going to leave it alone. After all, these #CloseGhosts could be #Catfish for all I know.

I turned 46 this year. Apparently, it’s one of those watershed moments in a gay man’s sexual career.

I’ve had them before. When I turned 31, it happened. Suddenly, the immature men in their youthful twenties weren’t interested in IMing me on AOL — hey folks, this is before the wide open world of the Internet. I know most of you kiddos missed that whole world where we didn’t hook up without hook-up sites, apps and Craigslist.

It occurred again at 36 when I no longer met the 19-35 threshold.

And now I’ve skipped beyond 45 and suddenly, everything ancient is new.

We’re into begging territory.

Daddies aren’t asking me to fuck him. Grandpa is. I get more pleas of “please fuck me” from men in their sixties than ever before. It’s not that I won’t fuck a man born in the 1940s. I will. But let’s get a few things out of the way.

Don’t ask if you don’t mean it. Begging me to fuck you when you’re 100-plus miles away doesn’t do shit for either one of us. I’m pretty much tired of the message when there’s no fucking way you’re coming to Atlanta and I’m surely not dragging my ass to Timbuktu, South Africa. My answer now is just to ignore the dumb fuck or answer, “Okay. Come on over.”

Don’t lie. Recently I did choose to fuck a child of the 1940s, but he lied, lied and lied again. He sent a bogus photograph (granted of another man in his early sixties) who had an incredible cock and a decent body. But he also said he didn’t smoke and, bingo, dumb ass, I smelled it the moment he walked in. I also enjoyed the fresher smell as he left the building.

Don’t let this give you hope. If you’re old, chances are I won’t fuck you. Look, I know I’m fucking old. That’s the thing… we’re both old. But I’d much rather fuck down than fuck up. Since this is a top world, I get to pick where I plant my seed and it’s still in a tight young ass. Speaking of which, I’ve got some advice for you old farts.

Gravity is not your friend. Look sweetie, if you’re going to take a picture of your saggy ass, I appreciate the honesty in advertising that you shoot that shot with you standing up. But when those ass cheeks look like they’re swinging at the back of your knees, we’ve got a problem Houston. Lie down and hire a professional photographer to re-position those cheeks into place.

Hemorrhoids do not build character. Maybe you do want to show off that cumload spilling out your ass, but three loads spilling out do not make up for the bulges around your pucker that look like you’ve had out-of-control Botox injections. Tuck that shit inside or simply don’t send me those photos.

Grooming costs money, but it’s worth it. Look, at 46, I can tell you I’ve got hair growing out of places I never thought I’d have hair. I fucking hate that my stylist doubles as the waxer for my earlobes. But my cute, young thing earns an extra twenty for ripping that shit out. And that strange pubic puff at the small of my back? Well, let’s just say, no one has to see that, even though the only people seeing my back are massage therapists.

All that said, stop the madness. You want fucked by me, be honest, upfront and nearby.

The U.S. Supreme Court issued a couple of landmark rulings — one basically letting California resume marrying same-gender couples and the other, and much more important, striking down the so-called “Defense of Marriage Act” (or DOMA) as unconstitutional.

While the DOMA ruling still allows a patchwork of states to maintain their bigotry, it did provide some remarkable language from the high court. Justice Anthony Kennedy wrote:

“DOMA’s principal effect is to identify a subset of state-sanctioned marriages and make them unequal. The principal purpose is to impose inequality, not for other reasons like governmental efficiency. Responsibilities, as well as rights, enhance the dignity and integrity of the person. And DOMA contrives to deprive some couples married under the laws of their State, but not other couples, of both rights and responsibilities.”

In other words, the law was codified bigotry.

Now on to hypocritical bigotry

A day before the ruling, the pseudo-news site for gays, Queerty, ran a piece about the Bareback Brotherhood. The slow editors — quick to pick up on the latest steroid-pumped pecs on meth-induced porn stars — just learned about the #BBBH movement on Twitter more than two years in thanks to an “intrepid reader.”

Posting on our “about” page became our “mission statement.” And without interviewing one of our founders, began making sweeping statements.

Oh God, how I love the media.

On a website that glorifies the party culture of the gay community, where one can hardly pass a page without some naked flashes of overly shaved men, the editors decide to come down hard on a social group.

The “editors” on this money-making commercial website have one article dedicated to Treasure Island Media, the world’s largest bareback studio. Oh, it’s mentioned a few more times on the website, but the article is connected to a story about a California government agency fining the studio for failing to use (gasp!) condoms on set and exposing actors to bodily fluids.

When cute, twink-boy porn site Sean Cody went bareback, Queerty went a little soft on them, writing:

“Whether or not bareback porn leads to unprotected sex among viewers has been hotly contested and is almost impossible to prove. We generally err on the side of letting grown adults make their own judgment calls….”

Then there’s how soft Queerty is with Maverick Men, a growing bareback media empire. Media darling Chris Crocker fucked raw there and Maverick Men wrote a book worthy of an article .

I also did a couple of searches on bareback hook-up websites. Our Queerty editors haven’t bothered to take them on. Not at all. BarebackRT.com is safe from the wrath. And I doubt the editors know anything about the bareback gatherings like CumUnion or the many other bareback fuck parties around. Or maybe the short bus hasn’t made it to those stops.

Bigotry to the People

But when it comes to bareback sex, the hammer must come down on the ordinary men of the Bareback Brotherhood. We’re the ones glorifying bareback sex and personally forcing people to get infected.

Never mind our bareback sex isn’t distributed to millions and sold. We are the masses. We’re the ones without the legal resources to sue or send a cease and desist letter. We’re not an organization that may someday, if Queerty can’t figure out what to do, buy a couple of skyscraper click-through ads on the website.

The editors, who’s probably just one condom Nazi needing a good breeding or a bareback denier who gets raw fucks all the time but can’t bring himself to tell the truth, puts himself on some platform of thinking he’s better than everyone.

He’s sitting back at his desk, smoking those Marlboro Reds after that satisfying Big Mac, fries and a chocolate shake of God-knows-what (but it wasn’t ice cream, milk or chocolate) and thinks he knows better for everyone what’s healthy for our lives.

And meanwhile, the money talks and every commercial enterprise gets a pass.

Mark Bentson, aka iBLASTinside, is a cofounder of the Bareback Brotherhood.